


The First

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Jealousy, coy filth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 10:16:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12981894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: Sansa hooks her first mark. Smoke and Mirrors-verse.





	The First

“So, was it a success?” Sansa breathes the words into the small bit of air that lays between them. Her cheeks are rosy-red, from excitement and the cold, and Petyr finds himself reaching out to cup one with his hand. She leans into the action, heated skin against cold rings, and he stirs inside in the least avuncular fashion.

“You tell me.” He has watched her from across the bar, kept her in his sights as she went out into the fray alone. It was her first time and she had regarded him with him a virginal fear that seemed somewhat calmed by the press of his hand into hers. She had not sought his gaze after that, and for that he was more than proud of her—it would not do to have her glancing about, would lead to suspicions on the part of the mark that could not be explained.

Instead Petyr stared at her from afar and was simply one of many men who could not resit the presence of this young woman, this newcomer on the scene. Any jealousy he felt (and it was there, though tamped down somewhat by the whiskey) was killed by the memory of what Sansa had allowed him to do to her the night before, the knowledge that she would be clawing at his side soon enough, the presence of the shared blood on their hands.

He lead her into their rooms while Sansa breathlessly filled him in on the details. The man had more money than sense, and in talking to him Sansa was able to uncover more than enough weaknesses to snare him. It had been a good pick for her first and Petyr had to congratulate himself on that — but of course, there were few men that could find their resolve when she slithered up beside them, batting her eyes, giving off an unspoiled air.

(He remembered the stains he had left her with last night and the way she traced them on her skin, as if precious, and he felt his cock twitch).

“He wants to see me tonight,” she finished, and she seemed almost shy. She looked to him for guidance, her hands twisted in her fur.

Petyr expected as much. It was a part of it, he had told her many times, but on their own accord his feet began to close the distance between himself and the bar. “You will, of course?” It was not really a question.

He could feel disappointment radiate out of her, even with his back turned, and for the first time he felt some annoyance at her.

“Could you be there?” The question took even Petyr by surprise. He looked at her over his shoulder, saw her biting her lower lip. Her eyes were wide, as if she shocked even herself asking that question.

Petyr would be lying if he said the idea did not appeal to him. He had imaged multiple times Sansa playing the virgin for some poor sod while he eyed her from the distance. He imaged the three of them in the room together, the boy too drunk to care that his new lover’s uncle sat opposite them. He had pictured the way Sansa would stare at him, as if in silent acknowledge that this was not enough, that only he mattered, that this other man was a thing to be used.

And he imaged, while the boy slept, taking Sansa beside that prone figure, his hand over her mouth to keep the girl quiet.

All of these had filled his mind from time to time but never had he voiced them. He knew that it was something to broach later, when her skills had sharped and her mind had hardened. They had shared a woman before, and he had watched as Sansa had been turned into a squirming mess by Barbrey’s fingers, but that was different. There was nothing to  _gain_  there.

“Are you sure he’d be responsive to that, sweetling?” He crossed the room and smiled at her, a sweet and familial smile that did not match the darkened look in his eyes. “You need him to trust you, you know?”

She looked to the ground but reached out to take him, sliding an arm around his back and drawing him to her. “I only worry…will I be good?” Another pause, this one pregnant, as if she was struggling with what to say. “Will you be jealous?”

_Will I be jealous that you fuck another man for his money? Do you think I could ever be replaced, sweetling, that you would ever have any man other than the one who ruined you?_ He almost laughed at her question. She would come back reeking of another man’s cologne and he would fuck her with seed still dripping down her legs. She would scream  _his_  name and he would cover any marks with his own, would reassert his claim in the most brutal way imaginable.

And when she saw that man the next day it would not be with his stain on her lips.

“I assure you, I want this for you.” Sansa still seemed unimpressed, so he reached out to direct her gaze to him. “Shall I give you something to take to him?”

She slipped to her knees without further prompting. That boy would never know that she went to him with the taste of her uncle’s cock on her lips, his seed down her throat, that the lipstick she wore for him truly was virginal.

When she left he finished off the nearest bottle and fished through her undergarments. Silk in hand, he allowed himself to indulge.


End file.
